The cold, hard truth: ice-fishing can be fun

"You need to see a shrink," my beloved wife barked at me as I loaded the truck with my gear.

"You must tell him or her you're too old for this kind of nonsense," she added.

I tried blocking out her communication, to no avail. I then slowly pulled out of the garage and headed to a nearby pond to see what Mother Nature had in store for me.

I was out to prove that the yuppie television anchor people and weather folks were nothing more than alarmists and "non-native imports."

Every day I get up very early because I can do quite well with about five hours of sleep. While waiting for three newspapers to arrive, I make a pot of extra-strong coffee to hopefully fuel my high-torque internal engine, and then settle down to watch the early morning television newsreaders stumble through their constant mispronunciations, mixed in with copious smirks and guffaws.

The common thread for all these cheerleaders is their ability to yell out that the sky is falling and we'd better watch out. All this of course pertains to the local weather scene, always a good topic to fill expensive broadcast time.

The doomsayers have continued to warn us that "bitter, ultra-freezing cold is out to get us and will linger on through the week."

It's true that many folks cannot tolerate the cold, but if any of you are like me, a native Chicagoan, a person who grew up trudging his way to public school through neighborhood glaciers, we learned how to deal with a Chicago winter.

So I decided to go ice fishing on that local pond before my wife enrolled me in an anger management class (all because I threatened to put my foot through the television screen).

I took my one-man Fish Trap, small heater, an extra small bottle of L.P. fuel, the power auger, sonar unit and two rods. I was also dressed in my ultra-warm Ice Armor parka and bib overhauls and mittens.

My usual routine is to drill a minimum of a dozen holes, scan the bottom with the sonar for schooled fish and then coax them to strike.

I drilled a measly six holes this time out and went to work. It wasn't five minutes when I cost my first crappie. It was a puny specimen of about 6 inches, but it was a fish. They kept coming, with fish reaching 10 inches. That's nothing to brag about, but nevertheless I was out, braving the elements and having fun.

The heater kept my one-person shelter at a comfortable 40 degrees.

Ten minutes went by and I hadn't had a strike, so I moved to another spot. The next hole was a good 20 feet away, located close to a weed line and over a 7-foot depth. Thirty seconds after I dropped a minnow to just above the bottom my ultralight rod bent over. There was hardly any drag applied and the reel buzzed as line scooted down into the frigid water. This was a decent crappie, I thought, and then I saw my prey. It was a hefty largemouth bass that must have decided its metabolism needed a kick start of fresh meat. My small electronic scale displayed 3 poundsd. I sent it back to its winter den and proceeded to catch another two dozen panfish. I was one happy camper.

I drove home three hours later and unloaded the truck. My wife heralded my return with a fresh cup of coffee - and a scolding.

"You're nuts. I know you love ice fishing and the like, but at your age you take too many chances," she declared.

I looked up at her while stripping off the cold-weather gear and gave her my oft-used, outdoor commando stare. Then I explained my rationale for venturing out in to the icebox.

"Sweetheart," I blurted, "this is what I do. This is the life I have chosen for myself. I grew up in this stuff, as you did. And I refuse to be intimidated by the clowns on the tube who will never know the joy of catching fish through the ice."

Her only reply was, "I'm looking up the name of a shrink and making you an appointment," she said.

I answered back: "OK. But ask him if he fishes."